Author's Note: Fair warning, this fic isn't typical Indiana Jones fare. Its inspiration was the colliding of reading another fic about Henry Senior and his thoughts during the last scenes of The Last Crusade and a viewing of the movie The Reluctant Convert about C.S. Lewis. I got contemplating how Indy's experiences in Raiders of the Lost Ark and The Last Crusade affected him, his thoughts and beliefs. As such, this fic focuses on issues of spirituality and faith for both Henry Senior and Indiana. With that said, full steam ahead for those interested.

One more note: This story is only canon as far as the first three original movies are concerned.

"Elsa! Elsa!"

She was slipping from his grip as she reached for the Grail.

"Elsa! Stop!"

She didn't even look at him. He cried louder. It didn't make any difference.

Her glove…it was coming loose! He tried to pull. She fell, screaming, terror on her face.

Indy stumbled backwards. Fell into someone. He was turned round. A knight, ancient, weary, wise, held him in his grip. The knight smiled and nodded.

A voice whispered. Not the knight speaking. Someone else. Behind him, or maybe above.

"Indiana…Indiana…Indiana…"

"Who is it?" Indy asked the knight.

The knight looked upwards. "You know."

"I don't."

"Indiana," the voice called more insistently. "Indiana!" It quickened and grew louder. "Indiana! Indiana! Indiana!"

"I don't know!" Indy shouted at the knight. The knight only smiled.

The voice boomed. "Henry Walton Jones, Jr.!"

Indiana Jones bolted upright, eyes and head darting every which way. Someone had shouted his name. His heart raced as his gaze swept over the three men sleeping next to him in the middle of the desert—Sallah, Marcus, and his father, Henry Jones, Sr. Sallah snored as he always did. Marcus drooled. Indy's father was quiet, but clearly fast asleep, curled on his side and facing his son.

Indy stood up as quickly and quietly as he could, snatching up a stick from the fire they'd managed to start with the scrub they had gathered when they'd realized they'd have to spend the night in the open. Indy scoped out the darkness, circumscribing a circle round their tiny encampment. There was no one. They were alone as far as he could tell.

But someone had called his name. Had to have. It had been so loud. Indy rubbed at his forehead. It was that dream, then. Only a dream.

Indy made his way back to the fire, tossing the stick to the flames. The fire crackled and momentarily flared. Indy glanced at his own impression in the sand and the wrinkled blanket. They wouldn't have had any covering if Sallah hadn't thought to steal the horses. He studied their four steeds, wondering what else they secreted.

Indy rummaged in his saddle bag first, then his father's, and finally Sallah's. Ah. He smirked as he found what he'd been looking for—a clear bottle with amber liquid. He glanced back at Sallah. Old trickster. He hadn't told them about the bottle. He'd just produced the bit of food the bag had contained. They'd shared it round. It wasn't much, but enough to sustain them until they reached civilization the next day.

Indy huffed as he pulled on the cork of the bottle. His father had given thanks with his eyes closed and head bowed for their meager "bounty," so his father called it. Indy would rather the Good Lord have provided a feast, especially as he was supposedly omnipotent.

The cork popped out of the bottle, and Indy took a swig. Ugh! He barely kept himself from spitting the nasty liquid onto the ground. Disgusting. But available. He forced himself to gulp another stinging swallow and shuffled away from the camp, not far enough to lose all the light, but enough he felt alone. He lowered himself to the ground, one knee up to rest his arm holding the bottle.

The bottle vibrated. Indy reluctantly studied his fingers, then his hand. They were shaking. He closed his eyes. His chest was trembling, too. He swallowed hard, the alcohol's sour taste still mingling with his saliva. He'd experienced this before. Two years ago. After the island.

His chest ached. He could feel the ropes binding him to the pole they'd tied him to along with Marion. He remembered his fascination and his fear and the regret that he'd dragged Marion back into his life. He'd destroyed her once and he'd destroy her again. And then…then…

He'd heard a voice. A whisper at first, like in his dream. Then a shout. Indiana! Look away!

He'd done so, frantically commanding Marion to do the same, knowing he had to obey immediately or they were done for.

And after it was all over, after the Ark had taken its pound of flesh from those who dared use it for ill, after his and Marion's bonds had burned away and he'd held Marion…After that, he'd explained away the voice. His mind had been whirring. It had been himself shouting at himself. Had to have been.

Indy opened his eyes, staring at the shaking bottle. He lifted it to his lips once more. It didn't taste as awful this time. He lowered his arm back to his knee. He'd promised to marry Marion after all that. But he kept having dreams and waking up and shaking, like he was now. He hadn't been able to explain it to her, how he couldn't sleep, how he couldn't breathe, how he'd stumble outside into the cool air and run and run until he exhausted himself. He couldn't pull her down with him again. He wouldn't. So he left.

The shakes had lessened after a time. Stopped altogether. He had thought he'd regained control. He had thrown himself into his professorship, focusing on his students more than anything else. Once in a while he'd get a lead, be tempted away to some adventure, like finally rescuing the Cross of Coronado after all these years, but in-between he tried to live as normal as possible.

And then the Grail, that blasted cup, had interfered in his life once more. Indy blew out a breath before sucking at the bottle. His father had been obsessed with the Grail, especially after his wife, Indy's mother, had died. Her absence had made his father all the more unbearable. At least when she'd been alive his father had taken an interest in his son. With her gone, his only interaction with his son was to force him to read text after text and quiz him on their contents, or to drill him in languages and history until his ears buzzed.

Indy paused, the bottle resting on his lower lip. A warmth spread from his chest outwards as a memory settled upon him. He was perhaps four years old, sitting in his mother's lap. Her dress was silky and soft, and her gentle hands were holding a book in front of him, a children's book. No difficult languages or challenging texts, just a book with simple words and a simple picture—a boy about his own age, maybe a little older, propped up on his elbow, eyes wide, looking up. Behind the boy was a closed curtain. If the illustration had allowed a glimpse inside, he knew what he would see—the Ark of the Covenant in the Holy of Holies.

He recalled his mother's affectionate voice reading the story.

The boy heard the voice for the third time calling him. "Samuel! Samuel!" Samuel ran back to Eli the priest as he had the first two times the voice had called him. "You called me," Samuel told the priest. This time, Eli understood the Lord was calling the boy. "The next time you hear the voice," Eli instructed Samuel, "say, 'Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.'" Samuel laid back down in his place. The voice called to him—"Samuel! Samuel!" Samuel replied, "Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening."

She'd stopped reading then, tucked him into bed, poked him in the ribs with a short tickle. She'd paused at his bedroom door when it was still open a crack and whispered, "Henry! Henry!"

He'd giggled. She'd left. He'd fallen asleep. No one had called his name during the night.

Indy shifted. The bottle was almost empty. His head felt fuzzy. Good. He took a deep breath. Henry. The name she'd given him along with his father. The name he'd ultimately rejected and despised.

He'd taken on another name at a young age. He'd had a dog he'd loved. It just felt right to be called the same name as his dog. And maybe it was also because he'd heard his father speak his name with disapproval one time too many, that stern, hard, reprimand echoing his father's own name that made it clear he couldn't ever measure up. He hadn't understood his thinking as a kid. But on reflection, it was all too obvious why he'd made "Indiana" his moniker.

Yet, if he was honest with himself, the tone his father had employed that made his heart sink and his stomach churn was better than what his father had done most of the time—ignore him entirely.

Indy turned slightly, looking back at the camp to glimpse his father's elderly figure. He'd turned in his sleep. His back was to Indy now. Indy grunted. That was all too appropriate. But then… Indy stared into the night, back the way they had come. He didn't need a compass. He knew by the stars, the innumerable stars in the inky black sky, exactly where the temple of The Canon of the Crescent Moon was located. Or maybe it wasn't exactly there anymore. It had been obliterated along with the knight and the Grail.

If he hired a digging team, maybe he could return and clear the debris. He could find the large crack in the ground. The Grail might still be there. He could claim it, an archaeological treasure unlike the world had ever seen.

Indiana turned away. No. He wouldn't do that. He couldn't. If he did, he thought he'd lose the one thing that had mattered most in the whole affair—his father, giving up the one thing he'd spent most of his life desiring. Saying a name. Softly. With care. With love. Indiana.

Indy let the last dregs of the bottle slip down his throat, then he cast it away into the night. The first time his father had heard him called "Indiana," he'd lifted an eyebrow, stared him straight in the face, and said, "We christened you 'Henry.'" He'd never thought his father would ever, ever speak the name he'd chosen for himself; at least when he wasn't speaking to the dog.

Indy's hand wasn't shaking anymore. He'd managed to control himself. He knew he should try to sleep, but he couldn't move. He was seeing his father at his desk, buried in scrolls and maps and tomes. The Grail Quest was his father's obsession. It hadn't been his obsession, at least until it had roped him in with his father's kidnapping. He'd convinced himself he was only doing all this to save the man who had brought him into existence, until he'd seen the knight and beheld the Grail's power.

He'd touched that power. His father had imbibed it. The cup had seduced Indy, the Divine within his reach. He'd wanted it so desperately. His chest tightened. Had he felt what his father had all those years he'd been ignored? He would have done anything for the Grail—until his father spoke his chosen name.

Indy tilted his head back, taking in the brilliant stars. Sometimes, when he was quiet enough, when the world faded and he was alone in nature like this, he felt the same pull that the Grail had exerted on him. It wasn't as strong, of course, more like a hint, a whisper, a breath. Sometimes he knew there was something out there, something above and beyond him. It had saved his father. He should be grateful.

"Elsa," Indy whispered. He bowed his head. It hadn't saved her. Instead, he'd lost another person he couldn't save. Indy and his father had been saved from their obsession. She had been punished.

His father had said he found illumination in the temple. Indy snorted. Illumination. And a power that could kill. Had killed. Here and on the island. And each time, a voice. Indy stared again into the dark. It meant nothing. Nothing at all.

"Junior."

Indy jumped at a hand laid on his arm, rising to his knees and swinging round in seconds. His father barely got out of the way before he punched outwards.

"Dad!" Indy shouted. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

His father wagged his head, clucked his tongue, and sat down next to him. His eyes narrowed and he leaned in close, sniffing. Indy pushed backwards. His father frowned.

"You've been drinking."

Indy's jaw went taut. He didn't answer, pulling his knees up to lay his arms across them and deliberately finding the darkness far more compelling than the man next to him.

"I suppose it's as vulgar a way as any to dull grief."

Indy bit the inside of his cheek to keep from snapping back.

"Elsa is responsible for her own fate. You believed. She didn't."

Did he believe? Sure, there was power in the cup, but even then, he didn't want it for any saintly purpose. He would have set it up in a museum to be admired with a plaque naming him as its excavator, not handed it over to a church.

"What would you have done with it, dad?" he asked quietly.

"The Grail?"

Indy nodded.

"Doesn't matter anymore, does it?"

Indy ground his jaw. Avoidance. Never answering a question that went deeper than the surface. So they were back to that again. Fine. Indy stared daggers into the darkness.

Silence passed for a while but then his dad's voice intruded once more. "What's on your mind, Junior?"

Indy didn't answer.

"You always did stop talking just when the conversation was getting interesting."

Indy rounded on his father. "You stopped talking, dad! You never cared. About me. About anything."

His father fixed him with a hard gaze. "You know that's a lie."

Indy worked a nerve in his jaw before answering. "You cared about mom."

"I did."

Indy huffed. "Not enough."

"I told you your mother understood too well."

"You're a hypocrite."

"Junior—"

"Elsa? You let Elsa seduce you?"

"Ah." Henry cleared his throat. "That."

"How is that honoring to mom?"

"Your mother's dead."

"I know that, but I'm not the one who's claimed all these years to follow the moral high ground of a dusty old book!"

His father's mouth firmed into a hard line. They stared at each other for a long minute before Henry's face fell. "You're right. I am a hypocrite. Same as you. As all mankind."

"Don't give me that, dad," Indy groaned, leaning back on his hands to stare in exasperation at the twinkling sky. "Don't turn this back on me."

"Do you mean you've never claimed one thing and done another?"

"Of course I have, but that's not what we're talking about."

"Isn't it? I'm a hypocrite. I agree. A sinner, too. The worst of all." His father's pitch had lowered, his voice broke a little. Indy turned his gaze to him. "I neglected your mother. I neglected you. Yes, I have failed many times."

Indy's heart squeezed in his chest. His father's eyes had taken on a glossy sheen reflecting the firelight. "Dad…I didn't mean…"

"Yes, you did, Junior. Own up to it."

Indy slowly nodded. "Okay. I did mean it."

"So did I. You haven't followed the dusty old book any better than I have."

"I never tried to."

"Hm. Maybe that's why you're so miserable."

Indy laughed. "Miserable?"

"Do you ever look at yourself, Junior?"

"I'm not miserable."

"How many women have you used and left? How many people have you killed? How many times have you prized your own glory over the lives of men?"

Indy felt an uncomfortable jolt right in his gut. All right. He could admit he wasn't often happy. He was just…okay. Most of the time. A majority anyway. Except when he was on an adventure. Then he was thrilled. It was like he couldn't be happy if he wasn't risking his life in some way, shape, or form. He had been that way most of his life, but especially after his mother had died and… He stopped thinking, startled.

"Yes?" his father asked with an infuriatingly shrewd stare.

All his life he'd been running. Away from his father, the women he said he loved, his commitments…Running into the thrills that numbed the pain.

"They don't last," Henry said. "Nothing lasts long enough to cover the grief. Not even the Grail Quest."

Indy looked at his father, head bent back, eyes intent on the night sky. "Dad?"

"The quest kept me alive after your mother died. And after you left."

Indy swallowed hard. He wished he didn't get what his father was saying, but he got it too well. He sought his thrills to keep going; his father sought his Grail.

"There's only one that can satisfy. He's up there"—his father pointed upwards, then outwards—"and here. The Grail isn't his home. Nor the Ark of the Covenant or the Temple of Solomon. He isn't contained. And if you humble yourself, he's here." Henry pointed at his own chest, right in the middle. "I am a hypocrite. A sinner. But there's still hope for me and for you…Indiana."

Henry pushed himself to his feet. Indy made to stand but his father pressed him down with a hand on his shoulder. "Think some more, Junior." His father left, his steps heading back to the camp.

Indy's hands were shaking again. His father had always believed. Yeah, he hadn't lived up to what he said he believed, but he had a point. Who did? That didn't mean that the old book wasn't right.

Indy slowly brushed his cheek. Even on this adventure, his father had taken him to task, slapped him for blaspheming the name of the Lord. He had felt like a child, but maybe he needed that slap to get his head back in the game. His father could be harsh, but he'd still said his name with more love than Indy had ever heard before.

He pitched his head back to the sky. "If you've been trying to get my attention, okay, I'm here. I'm listening." A gust of wind blew across Indy's form. He shivered. "Was that an answer?"

Indiana, the voice had said. Henry. Was it just his own mind? Or something more. Something Divine. Something he had felt from the cup. Something his father had treasured in his very soul.

His mother's lap and her stories. A child's book at first, then the old, worn book that had been in her family for generations. She had read it to him cover to cover, over and over. He knew his Bible. The boy Samuel called by God in the Tabernacle. Isaiah, the man of unclean lips, seared and commissioned. Paul, persecutor of Christians, blinded and called out by Christ.

Indiana…

The voice was barely a puff on the wind. Indy's heart pounded, his blood raced, his cheeks went hot. He'd vowed never to believe anything his father believed. He'd vowed to only trust what he could see. Evidence—The Ark…The Grail…

Indy wrung his shaking hands. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay." The penitent man kneels before his God. He follows the footsteps of God's name. He steps onto His path in faith. "Okay…Okay…"

The wind gusted once more before coalescing to rest on a solitary form kneeling with folded hands and closed eyes, face upturned to the stars.